She bathed and dressed, and went down without breakfast, through the empty drawing room and dining room and out through the conservatory, bursting with huge yellow and maroon flowers, into the garden. In the morning light the dark yew tree was sprinkled with lemon tufts, the green poplar glittered. The cedar looked blue, and on fire with the climbing roses. The oaks were closed with greenness. Rachaela heard the insistence of the sea, too loud now to be a voice in the head.

By the moon dial, the black cat was lying curled on the grass and Ruth knelt beside it. She did not touch the cat. Hearing Rachaela’s step, the girl raised her head.

‘He won’t wake up,’ she said.

Rachaela looked at the cat. There was no looseness of relaxation in its posture, it appeared hard and stiff. A low hot wind went by, and lifted the long fur like a fringe.

She walked over to the cat and touched its head and back. The body was vacant.

‘I’m sorry, Ruth. I think it’s dead.’

Ruth said, ‘No.’

‘I’m sorry. I think it was very old. I remember it when I was here before. It’s died in its sleep, very gently.’

‘I don’t want it to be dead.’

‘No, I know. It was a lovely cat.’

‘I don’t want it,’ said Ruth. She began to stroke the cat roughly, fiercely. ‘Wake up.’

Rachaela left her, and went in search of Carlo. She found him out of doors in his mufflers and sunglasses, not far off, weeding around the perimeter of the grass. Perhaps he had been keeping an eye on them, Ruth and she together.

‘Carlo, Ruth’s found the cat and I’m afraid it’s dead.’

Carlo straightened up.

He left his hoe and trowel and went across the lawn and around the trees to Ruth. Rachaela followed. She remembered him coming like that, unspeaking, for Sylvian.

Carlo bent over the cat and prodded it carefully.

‘He’s asleep,’ said Ruth. Carlo did not speak, but he picked the cat up by the scruff of its neck, then let the head fall again. ‘Don’t,’ said Ruth.

Rachaela said, ‘He can’t feel it now.’ She added, ‘They may burn the body. The Scarabae burn their dead.’

Ruth flung herself over the cat.

‘No! No! Don’t you dare burn him.’

Rachaela said to the unspeaking Carlo, ‘Will you bury the cat, Carlo, please.’

‘Not yet,’ cried Ruth.

‘It’s very hot,’ said Rachaela. ‘He’s been lying here all night.’ She said, despising herself, the euphemisms, ‘He’s not here now, Ruth. He must have got so tired and sore, just sleeping all the time, but now he’s free.’

‘Where is he?’ said Ruth harshly.

‘I don’t know.’

‘At school they said everything that dies goes to heaven.’

‘Maybe he’s there, then.’ Rachaela loathed herself.